My Fate is to Be With You
by Joodiff
Summary: It's been seven years since that night, but Boyd's not living in the past. "Waterloo" anniversary fic. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

 _A short fic to commemorate the anniversary of the original broadcast of WtD's final episode, "Waterloo" Pt2._

* * *

 **My Fate is to Be With You**

by Joodiff

* * *

Damn traffic never gets any better. Slowed to a crawl on the southern approach to Waterloo Bridge, with the brutal '70s edifice of the National Theatre looming ahead of him on his right, Peter Boyd shakes his head and contemplates – not for the first time in the last couple of years – the once-abhorrent idea of purchasing a car with an automatic gearbox. An F-Type coupé, maybe. He's always liked the look and feel of Jaguars. The sportier models, at least. It would be a ridiculous indulgence, of course, but one he can afford. Freelance consultancy, his preferred term for the kind of work he takes on nowadays, tends to pay very well indeed, and on top of his healthy police pension…

The latter thought makes him scowl to himself, as he often does when something reminds him that no matter how little he likes to imagine he's changed, he really isn't getting any younger. Truth be told, there's no financial reason why he continues to pursue the more interesting of the numerous and varied offers that still come his way. He doesn't need the extra money to support a decent standard of living, after all. Probably doesn't really need all the stress-inducing hassle, either, if he's completely honest with himself. _Definitely_ doesn't need to find himself stuck in bottle-necked rush-hour traffic as he tries to cross the river after an uninteresting hour's drive north from Gatwick bloody Airport.

He's glad to be back in London, though. Four weeks away is a touch too long. Maybe he should stick to taking only the kind of jobs where he can go home at night and sleep in his own bed. Then, isn't that a bit like… Well, a bit like conceding that yes, actually he just _might_ be getting just a little too long in the tooth to be spending weeks roughing it in the arse end of nowhere while trying to impart some of the skills it took him his entire career to accrue, or to be wasting days on end skipping from country to country chasing insubstantial leads that often go absolutely nowhere?

Muttering under his breath, Boyd realises he's almost on the bridge itself now, but that the congested traffic seems to be coming to a complete standstill ahead of him. Experience leads him to suspect there's been a collision. Probably nothing serious, but enough to temporarily choke the damn bridge to a halt in both directions. Dipping the clutch as he brings the expensive but nondescript silver car to a halt, he shifts the vehicle into neutral and applies the electronic handbrake. Nothing like as satisfying as manually hauling a lever up a ratchet. Times change.

The absent-minded thought makes him blink and take stock of exactly where he is. Waterloo Bridge. In April.

This is where it all ended, he thinks, remembering that night. The very last time all the remaining members of the core team of the Metropolitan Police's erstwhile Cold Case Unit were gathered together – as colleagues, at least. Technically still under arrest as he joined Grace, Eve, and Spencer beneath the bridge on the other side of the river from where he is now, Boyd can clearly recall every moment of the brief reunion that took place before he left to walk the relatively short distance to New Scotland Yard and the judgement that awaited him. That's gone, too, now. The imposing multi-floored building he remembers so well. Sold off by the Met along with God knows how many other assets.

Must be, what, seven years now? Since the Nicholson business. Seven damn years. Doesn't seem possible.

The traffic's still immobile, snarled as far as Boyd can see in both directions. For a few moments he looks west along the river, contemplating the familiar, iconic view. Westminster's Clock Tower – now renamed the Elizabeth Tower – is bristling with scaffolding, even the huge clock faces obscured. Nothing ever stays the same.

Without thinking about it, he changes his grip on the steering wheel, thumbs loosely hooked, fingers drumming a light, irritable tattoo as he surveys the jam again. Can't go forward, can't go back. It's a metaphor for something, he's sure. But maybe not for his own situation, because despite the fears of a good number of his friends and family he _has_ moved forward. Is _still_ moving forward.

The restless motion of his drumming fingers causes the late afternoon sun to catch the broad band of gold on his left hand, and for a moment it gleams brightly enough to draw his focus.

Seven years since that last night. _Five_ years of getting used to wearing a wedding ring again.

Using the controls on the steering wheel, he pages through the numbers stored on the phone in his pocket, still a little awed and fascinated by the modern technology that allows him to do so. In his teens and twenties he would definitely have considered such a thing pure science fiction, akin to galactic travel and domed colonies on alien worlds. Pressing a button to make his chosen call, he waits as the soft sound of ringing fills the car via the optionally-uprated speaker system that he secretly paid a premium for.

On the fourth ring, an impatient, querulous female voice answers with, "Yes?"

"That's a nice way to greet your husband, Mrs Boyd," he replies, well able to picture her cantankerous expression. Her mood doesn't seem to have improved much since he called her from the departure lounge in Spain to tell her he'd be home by the evening.

"I'm _busy_ , Peter," she says, tone still waspish. "Not all of us are able to swan off to Madrid for an entire bloody month, you know. _Some_ of us still have to juggle earning money with doing domestic chores."

Heeding her petulant tone, Boyd decides it's not the best moment to remind her that she spent a fair proportion of January ensconced in an upmarket New York hotel at the expense of her publishers, leaving him to kick his heels alone in London. Instead, he deploys a calculated amount of easy-going charm as he announces, "I've brought you back something nice."

Her derisive sniff is audible. "I'm not _that_ easily won over."

True enough, he reflects with an inward grin, but doesn't risk saying as much. Idly watching the swaying hips of a statuesque young woman wearing very high heels who's teetering past his stationary car, he says, "You'll like it."

"You always say that."

"And am I ever wrong?" he inquires, deciding that most of her asperity is contrived.

"No," she admits, an underlying note of humour finally evident in her voice. A momentary pause, then, "Where are you?"

Boyd grimaces. "Stuck in traffic on bloody Waterloo Bridge."

"What on earth…?"

"I was trying to avoid the rush hour melee on _Vauxhall_ Bridge," he explains, picturing her raised eyebrows. A Londoner born and bred, he knows how to shave a few valuable minutes here and there off a drive through the capital. But today, it seems, the gamble hasn't paid off.

She snorts. "That'll teach you."

Five years of marriage, plus two years of living together in delightful and often confrontational sin, and prior to that the better part of a decade spending rather more time with each other than with anyone else, and he _still_ has to fight down the impulse to hit back with some suitably scathing riposte. Languidly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel again and watching the tiny dancing spots of light caused inside the car by the sun catching his wedding ring, Boyd muses aloud, "I could turn round and go straight back to the airport, I suppose. There's an errant ex-fiancé believed to be holed-up in Montmartre I could – "

"Don't you _dare_ ," she interrupts. "Going to Paris without me is _definitely_ grounds for divorce, Peter."

"That's what I assumed." The encouraging sight of a flicker of blue strobes on the north end of the bridge causes a welcome flare of hope. Maybe the gridlocked traffic will start moving again in the very near future. Changing the subject, he says, "It's been seven years."

"Almost exactly," she confirms, not needing to query the announcement. A moment's silence is followed by a delicate, almost apprehensive, "You've been thinking about it?"

She worries about him. Far more than she ever admits, he knows. Can't seem to quite believe, even now, that a good many of the old wounds have finally healed. Wanting to reassure her, Boyd shakes his head, well-aware that she can't see him. "No, not really. It's just… being stuck here today. Feels like fate, somehow."

"Maybe your subconscious was trying to tell you something when you decided to cross there," she suggests.

"Maybe it was," he agrees, but he doesn't really believe it. "Seven _years_ , Grace."

Her voice is softer now. "And you still miss it, don't you?"

He does. Nowhere near enough to spend the rest of his life living in the past, however. The present is a good enough place, and the future will take care of itself as it always does. Instead of giving her an answer, he impulsively says, "Let's go back to Venice. You and me, next weekend. Just pack a few things, get on a plane and go."

"No work?" She sounds sceptical.

"No work," he promises. "Torcello, maybe? Fancy it?"

"I do," she says, and Boyd knows she's smiling. He just _knows_. That's the thing with them, the thing other people don't seem to understand. For all their many differences, they have an innate grasp of each other. An almost infallible ability to just _know_.

It's a precious thing. A unique thing, even. At least, he's never had the same kind of rapport with anyone else, not even his first wife before things went so terribly wrong. It's a thing to treasure, to hold onto. They bicker, and they argue, always have and always will, and they don't see the world in the same way, but it doesn't matter. The years have rolled past, one after the other, and they've both become a little more tolerant of each other's faults and foibles, time irrevocably cementing the bond that was formed very early in their association.

Boyd turns his head to look at the river again. The sun's lower in the sky than it was, but if he's lucky he'll be home before sunset.

"Still there?" she asks.

"Still here," he confirms. He's not an effusive man, but he _is_ an impetuous one. "Grace?"

"What?"

"I love you."

She sounds more bewildered than anything else as she replies, "Well… as your wife, I'm rather glad about that."

Seven years. He wonders what he was thinking about that night as he said his goodbyes and headed for New Scotland Yard. Was he thinking about the future, or the past? He can't remember. It's not important.

"Come home, Peter," Grace says, bewilderment replaced by affection. "You've been gone too long."

"I have," he agrees, as the first cars at the head of the queue of stationary traffic begin to move, "but I'm back now."

 _\- the end -_

* * *

 _Waterloo… promise to love you for ever more  
Waterloo… couldn't escape if I wanted to  
Waterloo… knowing my fate is to be with you  
Waterloo… finally facing my Waterloo_

\- ABBA, _Waterloo_


End file.
